A New Year's Resolution
by Ethanamide
Summary: Set after S3E3, inevitable Series 3 Spoilers. There is a New Year's Eve party at the Holmes' house; scheming and party games ensue. Sherlock looks to keep those who he cares about safe from a disturbing threat. "Are you sure you want to do this? Things change when you become involved." [Sherlolly]
1. Chapter 1

First fanfic in a decade, constructive criticism welcome, R&R :)

Trigger Warning: References to drug use.

1

"_Did you miss me?"_

Despite having seen his criminal counterpart blow his brains out on St. Bart's Hospital roof, Sherlock couldn't help but think that if anyone was capable of faking that it would be Moriarty. The question however, wasn't how, but more why? Did he know of Sherlock's plan to fake his death, and allowed him to destroy his network- all as part of a more elaborate game? Sherlock shook his head to dissipate the thoughts that riled him. He had now successfully put not only John, Mrs Hudson and Le Strade in danger again, but Mary, her unborn child and Moriarty wouldn't have missed Molly this time- especially as his return appeared to be unfortunately timed with regards to the cutting off of her engagement. Was this all just one convoluted exposé?

Or even worse, was someone using Moriarty's image as a front to carry on his work after the events on St. Bart's roof. Had all the time spent hunting down the network been in vain? Sherlock couldn't get his head around all the possibilities, which meant he couldn't begin to formulate a plan to protect everyone. Why did he insist on making friends? They only make things more difficult in the long run, Mycroft was right Sherlock thought bitterly, caring is not an advantage, irrespective of how… happy? He had been when spending time on cases with John or poking fun at Le Strade at New Scotland Yard. Sometimes he'd get body parts and put them in the fridge with the sole intention of amusement at Mrs Hudson's expression when she found them. He hadn't had the most social of childhoods, his parents had tried, but Mycroft always found a way to spoil his fun -fun is a distraction, he had been told by his older brother from an early age. Sherlock wondered if this was purely down to Mycroft's ego, as fun usually involved being attached to something and getting enjoyment out of it, and nothing was ever good enough for his brother such that he would get attached to it.

There was only one way to shut his mind up, and keep these thoughts out. He considered the items he had hidden under the floorboards in his room, just one little dose would help him calm down and block out all the unwanted thoughts. His mind involuntarily skipped back to the last time had had been caught. He honestly believed he needed to do it for a case, but got in too far, and the repercussions were worse than when Mycroft had him shipped off the a residential rehab centre (the was surprisingly easy to escape from) and tried get him clean that way. He didn't know if he could handle having to revisit the disappointment in their eyes, and the sting of Molly's hand on his face. He knew you weren't supposed to let friends down, but again, he wasn't supposed to have friends. Besides, who could even pretend to like him now after he'd killed a man in cold blood? Even if it was for Mary and John, he had set himself a precedent, and not a good one.

"STOP IT!" He shouted out loud, unaware that there was anyone else in the room.

"Delightful as ever," Mycroft stood in the doorway to the small study on the top floor of the Holmes' family home, and sighed at his little brother, he hadn't appeared to have moved, slept, eaten or said anything since they got back from the airfield 5 days ago.

"We're having a new year's eve party tomorrow night brother dear, do please have a wash, and a shave, you're beginning to resemble your 'phase' if you will, and you know how much that upsets mummy and daddy." Mycroft took Sherlock's growl as an affirmation and quickly departed.

"How is he? I daren't go in there, last time he was in one of these moods he... well… he was shooting, and not with a gun!" Sherlock and Mycroft's mother flapped around her kitchen, worried for her youngest son's mental state.

"I'm sure he'll be fine mummy, I've done a search of his usual hidey-holes no chance of…" Mycroft paused as John walked into the room,

"All go for tomorrow then? I've invited Mrs Hudson, Le Strade, and Molly if that's ok?" John enquired, since Christmas had been ruined and with Sherlock in a sulk, he was quite looking forward to having some other company. Things were still a little awkward with Mary, especially after the drugging incident.

"Not a problem, I've set up the other guest rooms- although I think we might be one short." The elder Mr Holmes proclaimed walking into the kitchen.

"Well if Sherlock doesn't get his act together, his bed will be free anyway," Mrs Holmes chuckled.

Mycroft simply rolled his eyes, and gave his mother a withering look before disappearing back upstairs to check on his troublesome sibling. He had always detested sentiment, but the memories of watching his parents deal with Sherlock and his habits over the years were enough to know that for his own sake, it was best for his parents not to see Sherlock like this.

As he climbed the stairs he heard a door slam and much aggravated noise. He knocked on his brother's bedroom door, and pushed it slightly ajar.

"Brother-mine are you coming down for lunch?"

A shoe came flying through the gap in the door and narrowly missed hitting Mycroft's face. He rolled his eyes and opened the door a little further,

"You're upsetting mummy now Sherlock, she's doing statistical modelling on how many nibbles people might eat and John is becoming quite tiresome, I don't know how you put up with him."

Another shoe came whizzing past Mycroft's face, followed by a sock and a hanky that looked like it had seen better days.

"What are you looking for? You're making quite a mess out here,"

Mycroft was getting bored of his brother, he'd only come back from London that afternoon at his mother's request, and wasn't intending on staying so long.

"Well I wouldn't be if you hadn't opened the door!" Sherlock snapped flinging open the door. He stood about an inch from his brother's face, hands on hips with a towel just about keeping his modesty.

"Oh do put some clothes on, our guests are due soon," Mycroft scoffed at his brother and headed off to the study, laptop in tow to check in on work engagements that he was not able to attend in London.

When John rang Molly up to invite her to a New Year's Eve party at the Holmes' house, and Mycroft had arranged the time off for her, she had nearly passed out. Spending that much time in close proximity to Sherlock and Mycroft- and what if their parents were the same?! She'd end up as a puddle of embarrassment on the lounge floor within the first 15 minutes of arrival. She'd tried to explain this to John, and to her surprise, he said that Sherlock's parents were good fun and nothing like the boys in attitude. Although, if she was completely honest with herself, the real reason she didn't want to go was more along the lines of Mary- why had her name been the first thing Sherlock said when he woke up in hospital? She knew if wasn't anything like _that_, but since then Mary and John had been on a break after what had been termed 'breathing space'. Molly know she was fairly ordinary when it came to reading people and situations, but there was definitely something fishy about this woman- Sherlock gets shot facing his attacker, and her name is the first thing he says.

Fortunately Le Strade and Mrs Hudson has also been picked up and were babbling about some television series she didn't care to watch, while Molly stared out of her window. Overall making the car journey to the Holmes' house not too unpleasant, and meant that the chance of her getting left alone with Mary in the house was fairly slim.

They pulled into the drive of what appeared to be an old farm cottage, with one of Mycroft's cars and an average family car already on the drive. The three of them got out from the vehicle, not quite believing that this was happening, both Sherlock and Mycroft hated parties and rarely ever saw their parents for that matter.

Sherlock watched the car pull up the drive. All were now accounted for. He turned swiftly on one heel and replaced proper order to the items he had been throwing at Mycroft. He slammed the door in a satisfied manner and made his way downstairs to greet the guests.

"Feeling better dear?" Mrs Holmes asked her son, a worried smile creeping across her face. Sherlock looked past her at John, who has signalling for him to give his mother a hug. He rolled his eyes and obliged, but scowled at John for the duration. When the hug finally ceased, Sherlock looked down to see tears in his mother's eyes, much to his confusion.

"You know you haven't given me a hug since you were 10 years old?" She asked him, blotting away the not-quite-tears. Sherlock just looked at his mother and answered simply,

"That was when I decided to give up sentiment mother, there is…"

"… No advantage to be gained," chorused Mrs Holmes and John, both pulling exasperated faces at him, and then sighing in mutual frustration.

"I had rather hoped I'd be a grandparent one day." Mrs Holmes muttered under her breath, shaking her head.

"Don't worry mummy, I've got a bet on you will be." Mycroft whispered, passing by her to open the front door. A brief wave of confusion passed over Sherlock's face at his brother's comment, unsure as to whether there was scheming or comforting going on.

Le Strade was leaning to push the doorbell when Mycroft opened the front door, conveying a scene of a weary looking Sherlock scowling into another room (one could assume at John), and a bemused older lady staring up at Mycroft like he was some strange man she'd never seen before in her life, being smiled at by an older man.

"It'll come out soon enough, mother," Mycroft casually smiled down at the still confused Mrs Holmes as if he were talking about something as mundane as the laundry.

"Go on in all, I'll see you tomorrow," Without as much as a backward glance, Mycroft and Anthea exited the house and the door shut to an awkward silence.

"Well, aren't you going to introduce us Sherlock?" Le Strade asked Sherlock made a noise of protest that was quickly replaced with one of pain. He growled at his mother, much to everyone's laughter. John shook his head and stepped into the hallway, fairly certain that Sherlock would rather iron his hands than deal in pleasantries.

"Mr and Mrs Holmes, this is DI Greg Le Strade from Scotland Yard, Mrs Martha Hudson Sherlock's landlady, and Molly Hooper from St. Bart's hospital, Mrs Hudson, Molly and Greg this is Sherlock's mum and dad. Not difficult Sherlock." John moved out of the way to allow for handshakes and other introductory niceties, giving Sherlock a look of annoyance, which his friend ignored.

"Now, with regards to sleeping arrangements, we have three spare rooms, 1 of which is presently occupied by John and Mary, so the three of you can have the other rooms how you please," Mr Holmes asked cheerily, starting to walk up the stairs followed by Molly, John carrying Molly's bag, Le Strade and Mrs Hudson

"Unless you're not going to sleep Sherlock- in which case someone can have your room," Mrs Holmes query was received with a scowl from her younger son.

"No one is to go in my room." He said flatly, following the others up the stairs, carrying Mrs Hudson's bag.

"Tea?" Proposed Mrs Holmes, after all, nothing beats a proper brew on a cold winter's day. Nods moved around the room like a Mexican wave of heads. Mrs Holmes busied herself making tea and getting an appropriate selection of biscuits, listening to the mild chatter from the other room.

"Anything you need, dear?" Mr Holmes sauntered into the kitchen

Mrs Holmes smiled at him and handed him the tray with multiple side plates of biscuits to be places upon the carefully laid out nests of tables in the lounge.

"So Molly, what is it that you do?" Mrs Holmes asked, Molly went from terrified to petrified.

"She's my pathologist mother. The one that helped me fake my death." Sherlock answered before Molly had fully processed the question. She still couldn't believe she was in Sherlock Holmes' parent's house.

"I'm sorry dear, _your_, pathologist?" Mrs Holmes looked up at her son, who seemed to be none the wiser for the implications of what he'd said, instead getting annoyed at repeating himself.

"Yes mummy, the only pathologist in the whole of St. Bart's hospital, and London I'd wager, that does a reasonable job, hence the only one I'll use, hence the use of the term 'mine'." He glowered at his mother, and scanned the room. "Where's my coffee?"

"You didn't ask for one dear," His mother pointed in the direction of the kitchen, to which he huffed, scowled and left, dragging his heels.

"You must be a saint," John said with an incredulous look on his face, Mrs Holmes just laughed,

"He's mellowed after living with you, he was a lovely boy up until about 10, not sure what got into him around then…" She had a sad look about her eyes, but only for a fraction of a second.

"It's true John, you should have seen him in the morgue before he met you. Sometimes he'd pop in, pick up a leg and walk out again. Not even a word." Molly added, wondering what it was that had made the older lady so sad, and why it was taking Sherlock so long to make a cup of coffee.

"You know what would be fun? Shall we have a look through the family album?" Mr Holmes grinned a cheeky grin, and set off to get the photo album from the other room.

"No, that would not be fun." Came Sherlock's voice from the other room, he was not impressed at this supposed parental duty to embarrass him at every available opportunity. At least Mycroft wasn't here, the stories he could tell were infinitely worse. Sherlock stared at the coffee in front of him, and pondered what to do about the room full of people he needed to protect.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello all, I'm quite excited by the response this has got! Thank you very much to all who have followed/reviewed/favourited- hope I can live up to your expectations!

Any issues let me know, and I'll try and address them.

Quick note: I will try to be a weekly updater but chronic illnesses aren't always compliant.

2

Sherlock stared at the coffee in front of him, and pondered what to do about the room full of people he needed to protect.

"MOLLY!" He barked, "Did you bring those toes?" Sherlock almost let out a smirk at the crash that came from the lounge area, Molly wasn't known for her grace.

He didn't look up when she appeared in the kitchen, red-faced and breathing heavily. He had simply shouted the question with the motive of getting her to send a text for him. John would no longer acquiesce to such summons, so he decided to settle for the next best thing. Mrs Hudson could barely use a phone, Gary (or whatever his name was) would be of little help, and ask too many questions and his parents were very unlikely to indulge him, therefore it had to be Molly he reasoned with himself.

"What toes?" She panted, rubbing her hip, she made a mental note to try to not trip over that coffee table again – well, not more than twice.

"Now I've got your attention, I need you to send a text." Sherlock said calmly, still staring intensely at his coffee mug. Molly blinked twice; he had called her in here to send a text?

"You want me to send a text for you?" Molly asked the mobile in question was less than a metre from Sherlock's hand- not out of reach.

"Yes." Came the slightly too mild mannered reply. Molly sighed, he hadn't offended (deduced) anyone since they got in, he'd been sulky and reserved. There was only one reason in her mind.

"What do you need, Sherlock?" She asked,

"For you to send a text Molly, it's a pretty menial request," Sherlock snapped, still not having looked up from his untouched coffee.

"No, Sherlock, what do you really need?" When he refused to answer, Molly decided to change tack.

"Sh-Show me your arms." If she had to get him to confess the hard way, then so be it. It wasn't fair on anyone else in the house; especially given the Moriarty image- they needed a functional Sherlock.

"If you've nothing to hide you will show me your arms, or so help me Sherlock I will call in John and we'll do this the hard way." She hissed blinking back the tears that were stinging her eyes.

Sherlock shuffled in his seat, looking decidedly uncomfortable. How did Molly always know when something was amiss? She had no reason to make such an audacious demand. It was his life, and he'd do what he wanted with it.

Molly took a step towards him an placed her hand on his shirt cuff,

"You let me do this or there's only one text I'll be sending, and you know who to, and what it'll say." She didn't want to threaten him, but it could be the only way for her to rationalise his behaviour. He neither flinched, nor spoke a word in response to her, knowing that it would only get worse if John or, heaven-forbid, Mycroft were to get involved.

There was still no reaction as she unbuttoned his cuff, Molly sighed inwardly this was far too easy. Why was he not putting up a fight? He could easily have brushed her off physically or with a comment harsh enough to send her crying. She sat down in the chair next to him at the kitchen table, and began slowly rolling up his left sleeve, not a word or look was exchanged, but the atmosphere was surprisingly calm. Once she had got the sleeve above the elbow she extended his arm out, holding onto his wrist, and began to scan the skin for puncture wounds. The evidence of extensive past abuse was plain to see, she ran her fingers lightly over the small silvery scars and blemishes on the skin in the crease of his elbow.

Sherlock could feel her breath on his skin, his senses set racing by her by the sensations of her close proximity. He couldn't move, filled with the smell of her shampoo, the sound of her breathing and the light touch of her fingers on his arm. He wondered whether she would be able to date all the marks on his skin- well, she wouldn't be _his_ pathologist if she didn't get damn close. He smirked inwardly at the irony of wanting a less skilled pair of eyes examining him right now. He couldn't look her in the eye, not now, maybe never again. He didn't understand the trust and faith these people had in him, why would you choose a sociopath as a friend? Why would anyone want to put up with him purely 'because'? How could anyone say that time in his company was worth all the other aggravations associated with him.

Molly could feel two ridges along a skin fold, and decided the best way to see if they were actually puncture marks, was to bring them to the surface. She placed his arm to rest on the table and went to pick up a tea-towel, folding it over many times and tying it tightly around his arm a little further up than where she'd stopped folding the shirt sleeve. She prodded at the skin around where she'd felt the ridges, encouraging the vein to show itself.

"It's awfully quiet in there," Remarked Mrs Holmes, putting away the third photo album.

"It's most likely fine Mrs H, Sherlock enjoys his toes," John chuckled, looking at Mrs Hudson,

"I hope they're the ones he's been keeping in the fridge, they really are frightful," Mrs Hudson commented, looking most appalled at the notion of body parts in the fridge.

"Came home to a head in the fridge once," John chuckled, "Not quite sure how Molly hasn't been fired for giving him these for so long,"

"I really wish she wouldn't, there's more in his fridge that comes from a person than can be put into a person!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, making the room burst out laughing, Sherlock may be odd at times, but they all loved him for it. He really didn't realise just how strange he looked to those so-called small-minded folk.

"Can you remember the sorts of things he used to store in the fridge here, dear?" Mrs Holmes asked her husband, they shared a knowing look,

"Mostly dead birds, squirrels and the odd pheasant liver, sometimes he'd bring live animals home to experiment on psychologically," Mr Holmes sighed fondly,

"It took months for us to get that hedgehog out of Mikey's room," Mrs Holmes smiled at the memory. Her boys, for all their outward spite really did care for each other – in their own special way.

Molly untied the tea-towel and put it back where she found it, and sat back down next to Sherlock,

"What do you need Sherlock?" She asked quietly, resting her hand on the crook of his elbow. He still made no response. Sherlock couldn't understand why on Earth she would try and help him now? Couldn't she just slap him and be done with it? He couldn't bear to go through all the disappointment. Above everything, he hated being a disappointment; it reminded him of an entire childhood spent as one. The youngest, the not-quite-good-enough one, although saying that, at least he wasn't _the other one_.

"Do you want me to call Mycroft or John?" She asked moving to pick up his phone; his silence was becoming quite deafening to her ears. He grabbed her wrist as soon as she took her hand off his arm and shook his head.

"Why won't you let me help you?" She felt her voice break and a single tear roll down her cheek. His grip tightened around her wrist, "That'll bruise," She warned quietly, he reduced the pressure, but only slightly, and rose from his chair.

Without saying a word, and still not able to look her in the eye, Sherlock led Molly out of the backdoor and into the garden. She shuddered at the cold English winter's air, the ground crisp underfoot from the morning's frost that hadn't quite warmed up. Noting her lack of shoes and coat, Sherlock picked her up bridal style and carried her over to a reasonable sized shed at the end of the garden. He put Molly down on the "porch" area and punched in a code, twisting the knob to open the door. Molly gasped, it was essentially a self-contained flat combined with a lab. There was a make shift bed (well, a large pile of blankets and pillows on the floor), a hob, a fridge, and even an attached 'bathroom' of sorts, with what looked like a compost toilet and self-pump camping shower.

"Was that the backdoor?" Asked John, getting increasingly concerned about Sherlock- he knew his friend could be disagreeable and downright rude, but something about him seemed off today.

"He's probably taken Molly to see his shed, especially if there's toes involved." Mrs Holmes hypothesised,

"He was outgrowing the house quicker than he was growing up, so we got him a shed in the garden to do experiments and sleep in, so we wouldn't have to worry about him going missing so often," Mr Holmes explained, "He must have lived out there for about 5 years, before he disappeared off to university,"

Molly sat down next to Sherlock in the blanket nest; she'd done some reading about drug addicts after 'the incident' and wondered if some of the tips on the addict-carer forums would work on him.

"I did some reading, after last time, and there seems to be a reasonable amount of evidence that a lot of addicts use to gain control over something. They compensate for a sense of falling in real life, with a 'controlled' fall into addiction. You might not be able to control the Moriarty situation, but if you need something to hold on to Sherlock, you can have me, you know that," Molly stood up, frustrated at the brick wall she appeared to be talking to, although she was sure there must be a brick wall out there with more expression than there currently was in Sherlock's face. She turned to leave,

"Why?" Was all he could say, any more words may have betrayed the mask he was trying so desperately to hide behind. Molly sighed and crouched down in front of him, tipping his face with her hand,

"Look at me," She said calmly, as if to a child, "It's what friends do for each other, it's a two-way road. You saved John's life, he's saved yours. That's how it works," Molly smiled sadly and moved her hand away from his chin, although to her surprise his head didn't drop back down.

"I've not done anything to deserve this from you Molly, I've insulted you, belittled you, ruined your engagement and now you're in severe danger because of me." He said honestly, staring into her eyes, looking for the disappointment and rejection that he expected.

"I know. That's not the point. Friendships aren't linear or logical or in most cases even vaguely equal with respect to give and take. You and John are proof enough of that. I've known you long enough to know what to expect and if you say I count then that's all I need." Molly had been frank with herself after she had split with Tom; she decided that if she wasn't capable of being happy with anyone while Sherlock was alive, then she'd have to come to terms with making the best out of what she'd get from him.

Sherlock blinked twice in response to what Molly said, he didn't deserve this and wasn't sure whether to be angry or confused. He settled for the latter on the basis of emotions being 'not his area'. He saw her shudder in her crouched position, and before he could think, pulled her onto his lap.

"Don't get cold," He mumbled, pulling the blankets up around her.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you ever so much for the feedback and the follows/favourites, you're all very kind. Couple of points to make, both to do with drug addled brains:

Firstly, I'm writing from experience. I take codeine (morphine derivative) for my condition, and it messes with you. I'm trying to combine how it messes with me, with how I perceive Sherlock. I apologise if the balance is off.

Secondly, due to above reasons, my English for an English person can be awful. I apologise for this too, I try my best to write on days when I'm more coherent.

Again, many thanks, and enjoy!

3

Darkness was falling outside; Molly's stomach rumbled she'd had to have an early lunch to compensate for the drive out of London. She sighed inwardly, having not moved for what must have been at least two hours had left her extremely uncomfortable and really rather hungry. What topped off the whole situation was that she knew Sherlock wouldn't notice if she left, he was probably deep in his mind-palace somewhere, but he had hold of her in such a fashion that she wouldn't be able to move without disturbing him. He held her tightly to his chest, one arm around her shoulders, the other around her waist; she could hear him breathing steadily, the soft cotton of his shirt against her cheek. Her stomach growled again, making her wince at how loud it sounded in the silence of the shed.  
"Dinner will be here soon," Sherlock mumbled into the encroaching darkness, tightening his hold on her. He wasn't sure why he didn't want to let her go, but his drug-addled mind wouldn't have it any other way. He shuffled on the spot to get some blood flow back into his legs, he felt Molly flinch as he uncrossed his legs- was she hurt? Had he hurt her? She couldn't be hurt, she wasn't hurt when she got here and surely that minor altercation with the coffee table earlier wouldn't cause such a reaction?  
"Are you hurt?" He asked quickly, hoping the speed of the sentence would hide the panic behind it. Molly shook her head and manoeuvred as much as she could in his grip.  
"Just uncomfortable," She answered, almost falling over when he suddenly decided to loosen his grip on her- he was now holding her in a much more fragile fashion, as if she was suddenly made of glass. Molly stretched her legs out and uncoiled her back, noting that it was now very dark in the shed. She could feel him leaning his head against hers, his breath chasing her hair like the wind often did. This small moment was broken by the sound of three knocks on the window, to which Sherlock jumped up off the floor, dragging Molly up with him by the wrist. She tripped on the blanket nest on her way up, going head first into Sherlock's abdomen and landing them both on the floor with a massive thud.  
"Sorry," Molly groaned into his stomach, and tried to push herself up; surprised to see he still had hold of her wrist. Sherlock hated not being in control of situations, it usually lead to uncomfortable conversations with Mycroft about how stupid, and slow, and disappointing he was. Then again, Mycroft was lonely, and he was not. He may not understand why they wanted to be his friends, but he was glad for the company and contrast they provided him. He pondered his predicament, what if Molly was right? She was usually right with cadavers, and when he'd last been caught with drugs in his system, especially when his mind palace version of her had talked him through how to survive being shot, so why would she not be correct now? She'd obviously done her research, and he wasn't one to argue with evidence, even if it did come from the realm of the social 'sciences'. Sherlock wasn't sure why he couldn't let go of Molly's wrist, logically it would make standing up and getting food much easier, or indeed, why having the small woman's face buried in his abdomen was strangely pleasant. He decided it had something to do with her being his friend- not his area, so could easily fall there- he would think this through later.  
"Shall we try that again?" Molly asked, she could have sworn he jumped slightly at her words, as if he was lost in his thoughts somewhere. The next attempt was a bit more co-ordinated, and resulted in both of them successfully on their feet, well, Molly on Sherlock's feet. He shuffled out from under her feet, and took her over to the front of the shed; Molly winced slightly at the pressure on the bruises developing on her wrist.

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock," She put her free hand on the one he had around her wrist, and gently prised it off her, holding the now shaking hand in both of hers. Sherlock was grateful he didn't have a light switch and hadn't turned on any of the lamps, he wasn't sure how he looked right now and if he would be able to hide whatever it was that he was expressing. He took his free hand and opened a hatch in the wall, outside it looked like a letterbox, but it functioned as a way of keeping his mother quiet about his eating habits. He removed the carrier bag and refastened the hatch, the smell of Shepherd's pie diffusing around them. Molly's mouth began to water, and her stomach grumbled loudly.

"I believe I owe you dinner, Molly," He whispered, gripping the hand that was underneath his tightly, and leading her over to the work bench. He lifted Molly onto a stool she hadn't realised was there and lit a gas-lamp, it wasn't quite dinner by candle light, but she'd take it. Molly giggled to herself at the thought and watched his eyebrow arch in response. She shrugged at him, she shouldn't have to explain everything she was thinking- or should she? His eyes were bloodshot and damp, he'd been crying, she sighed and smiled up at him,

"Dinner would be lovely," She noticed Sherlock exhale sharply, as he closed the curtains and dug out some forks; he handed one to her, and a Tupperware container full of mash and meaty goodness.

"This is delicious!" She exclaimed through her mouthful, Sherlock smirked.

"Don't talk with your mouthful, Molly," He chided softly, she almost choked on her dinner that tone of voice was unexpected.

"How much did you take?!" She blurted out; Sherlock stopped eating and looked at her as if she'd sprouted purple horns. "I mean, you've been quiet, you've not deduced anyone to the point of them wanting to hit you, you've only just let go of me! This is nothing like the reaction you exhibited last time- different drugs, different dose, what is it Sherlock?" Her voice got higher and higher pitched until she realised he was just standing there as if she was trying to lecture him on astronomy- confused. She sighed,

"It's just unnerving, you being not you…" She began to explain, when he turned sharply on his heal, and took his dinner into the blanket nest facing the wall. Molly sighed and looked at the door of the shed; there was no way she could leave him like this. She scooped the last of her dinner into her mouth and deposited the Tupperware onto the workbench. She slid down off the stool and walked over to the heap of blankets in the back corner of the room that was essentially a Sherlock chrysalis. Molly picked up his surprisingly empty dish from in front of the blankets and put it over on the worktop, shaking her head: here went nothing; she might even get a butterfly out of it. She crouched down next to Sherlock who was lying on the floor, back facing her with the covers over his head.

"We love you just the way you are, it's always unsettling when someone steps out of character, regardless of whom. I don't think any less of you for it Sherlock, we're all scared." She sat down facing the front of the shed, and attempted to dig his head out of the duvet. For a small person, she put up a good fight, but couldn't get him to relinquish his cocoon. She stood over him and examined the bundle in front of her, trying to work out the best way to address the situation. She decided that the least intrusive on him would be to sit down between him and the wall and wait until he needed oxygen and had to unravel himself a little- then she could try digging him out again. Molly placed her hand on the covers on top of Sherlock's head and hummed a tune to herself quietly. After half an hour of silence she got up and turned off the gas lamp, plunging the small room into darkness. She fumbled her way back to the blanket nest, taking extra special care not to trip, and placed her hands on Sherlock's waist. She felt him stiffen, even under the thick blanket, but clambered over him regardless. Once she had returned to her position in between him and the wall, she tried to find his air-vent, there was no way he could be buried under there and getting enough oxygen. Well, she thought to herself, you've finally found yourself fumbling around in the dark with Sherlock. Of course fumbling in the dark with Sherlock would mean checking if he's breathing. She sighed heavily and continued on her quest, eventually managing to fit her hand in between some of the less tightly bound covers around where the lower half of his head was. Molly wriggled her hand about, making a reasonable sized hole. She retracted her hand, satisfied that he would now be a little less likely to suffocate himself, and wondered what to do next.

"You are impossible," She sighed at the blanket lump.

There was another knock at the window; Molly got up to turn the gas-lamp back on and investigate what had been put in the hatch so late. She smiled to herself, a thermos of tea, two cups, and some biscuits. Mrs Holmes was a lovely lady, how with sons like Sherlock and Mycroft she'd never know. Molly took the tray of tea and biscuits down to where she was sitting before, and poured herself a cup to sooth her frayed nerves. She picked up a biscuit to dunk in her tea, when suddenly a memory of feeding Toby cat biscuits under her blanket on the sofa hit her. She grinned to herself, Sherlock was in many ways like her cat, only wanted you when they needed something, they both liked chasing things, and they both seemed rather fond of biscuits. Molly refrained from dunking her biscuit and instead put her hand holding said biscuit into the air hole she'd created. She managed to get in far enough to brush the back of her hand against his cheek. Sherlock flinched at the contact, he was unused to any sort of physical contact as most people could see he wasn't one for it, and here he was being fed biscuits by Molly Hooper, another situation he filed away to analyse later. His mother had always had a strange telepathy with respect to when tea and biscuits were required in the shed, and this wasn't the first time he was grateful for it. He made a mental note to thank her more often, he knew she'd appreciated it and seeing as he was doing the caring thing now, he might as well- in for a penny in for a pound as they say.

"I highly doubt you'll answer this, you're probably miles off in your mind palace, if you're not just plain ignoring me. But there's tea here if you want it, if you don't want to talk that's fine. I won't force you. I'll still be here when you're ready to, whenever that is," Molly gabbled a couple of semi-coherent sentences into the silence, and was surprised when he sat up, and shook the covers down off his face, to around his waist.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock asked Molly, moderately confused. She shrugged,

"That's what friends do for each other, they don't abandon them," Molly said quietly, handing him a cup of tea and another biscuit.

"Would you do this for John?" He asked, Molly let out a short laugh,

"He's got Mary for this sort of thing, that's a whole other level of caring. You'd do anything for the one you love, to make sure they don't get hurt." She mumbled into her cup, trying not to cry.

"What difference does that make?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows furrowed, he disliked the social protocols associated with sentiment. Molly smiled a small smile, not looking up from her tea,

"If John was ill or upset, then Mary would stroke his hair, hold him close, talk nonsense to try and make him smile. It's just different, I don't expect you to understand," She took a mouthful of tea to calm her down, trying not to think about how she'd never have anyone to care for her like that. Something John had said to Sherlock flashed across his mind momentarily: _"People protect people, Sherlock."_ The memory vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and he caught himself staring at Molly. She was still too absorbed in her tea to notice, so he took the opportunity to observe. In short, she looked sad, overwhelmingly so. The sight, for reasons he wasn't quite sure of, made him feel sad. Why was she so sad? He surmised that it must be to do with talking about Mary and John when her own attempt at marital bliss hadn't even made the church. He groaned inwardly, it was his fault, again. Why did he always end up hurting the people he cared about? He made another mental note to address this problem later; his present focus should be aimed at making Molly less sad. That was something a friend should do. He untangled himself from the blankets and transferred all the tea related items back onto the tray; he peeled the tea mug from Molly's grip, and took the tray over to the work surface. Upon his return to the blanket nest he saw she had brought her knees up to her chest, and was resting her head on them, staring blankly at the front wall of the shed. Sherlock sat down next to Molly, unsure of what to do- she had said that hair stroking was a tool to be used by people with intimacy, but it was obvious to him that she would appreciate it. Perhaps he should try a different method.

"What do you need, Molly?" He asked softly, she blinked twice in surprise at both the question and tone in which it was asked.

"I'll be ok, don't worry about me," She replied, the quiver in her voice betraying her.

"You once said to me, that I looked sad. You were willing to offer anything to help. You risked your job, one of the most important things to you. It's about time I at least tried to repay that, even if only in part. I'm not good at this, Molly; all the caring stuff is new to me. I don't want to upset you anymore than I already have done." He surprised himself with what he'd said, did that mean she'd see it as insincere and drug induced? He wasn't sure about the latter, but he was certainly being sincere. He wouldn't blame her if he didn't believe him, he'd used her often enough.

"It's ok, Sherlock…" She began,

"I'm being sincere," He interrupted, "I mean it, and I meant it before, I want you to be happy and you deserve to be so." Sherlock finished softly. Molly couldn't hold it back any more, she burst into tears. Sherlock froze, what was the protocol for a crying female? He had no idea; he racked his mind-palace for a reasonable solution to the problem. The weather in there wasn't so great, thick mist had descended over the space, he ran to the heavily chained door labelled _'Childhood'_ and let the chains fall off the door. He took a large breath and went through the door he never thought he'd visit again. A strong memory of his mother holding him to her chest, enveloped him, she was stroking his hair after he'd been on the end of a more stinging attack from his brother, he was only nine years old at the time. He retracted back to the real world, and saw Molly had gone. He got up and saw that the 'bathroom' door was shut, thankfully it had no lock, so Sherlock knocked on it lightly he could hear her crying on the other side.

"Come out Molly, or I'll come in, the door doesn't lock," He tried to sound as unthreatening as possible. He stepped back to allow her to come out, should she choose to do so, and thirty seconds later he wasn't disappointed. A forlorn looking Molly shuffled out, tissue in hand. She couldn't bring herself to look up at him, this wasn't the first time he had made her cry, and she didn't want him to be able to read that off her face. Much to her surprise he didn't say anything, just enveloped her in a hug, and a proper hug at that. This minor show of affection was enough to set her off again and she sobbed into his chest. Sherlock was perplexed at her reaction, hugs were supposed to make things better, not worse. Maybe she needed something more? He wasn't quite sure what he meant by more, but decided that he would comfort her like his mother had done for him all those years ago. After all, that was all he had to go on. He picked her up with relative ease and carried her over to the blanket nest, putting her down gently so she was sat on the floor. He sat down beside her, lifted her onto his lap, and took the scrunchie out of her hair. Molly wriggled into a comfy position, with her face buried in his neck; she could feel his breath on her cheek and his hand running through her hair. The whole scenario was too good to be true, she knew the probability of this ever happening again was very slim, and the thought of that started her off crying again. Sherlock twisted his head round a little and whispered in her ear,

"Please stop crying Molly; I don't know what else to do,"


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to all for reading, reviewing, following and favouriting! Hugs all round :)

4

With a full stomach and the presence of a roaring fire John was dozing off next to Mary, listening to Mrs Hudson and Mrs Holmes exchange stories about the young man they both cared for deeply. They were giggling quietly between themselves, John wondered if they would be about the same age, it would explain the fondness Sherlock had for his landlady and why he would always demand biscuits- since they had arrived John hadn't seen a plate devoid of one. Speaking of Sherlock, what had he cajoled Molly into doing now? They'd been in that shed for hours; Mrs Holmes had taken out some food for them about an hour ago and come back in with a moderately puzzled expression on her face. When questioned she'd simply said the lights weren't on, but there was nowhere else they could be. Knowing Sherlock, he had most likely got his face buried in some file on his phone and not noticed. Poor Molly, John knew she wouldn't be able to leave without some sort of consent and would therefore be stuck there for the foreseeable future with the most ignorant man on the planet. Except possibly Mycroft, John pondered, wondering which brother would be worse- the one that didn't notice or the one that chose not to.

"John?" Mary prodded him in the ribs, if he slept now then he'd keep her awake all night tossing and turning and she certainly didn't need anything else disturbing her sleep!

"What?" John yawned, stretching out upon being woken from his dozing. He looked around, and they were the last ones in the room, how long had he been dozing for? Everyone else must have gone to bed.

"Should you check on his highness before bed?" She enquired a glint in her eye.

"He should be fine, Molly's supervising," John replied rubbing his eyes sleepily. Sherlock wasn't his full-time problem now he was married, others would have to take on looking after the man-child every now and again.

"I've seen you look like that before John, you're worried about him," She said softly, she'd known him long enough to know when it was a Sherlock specific problem.

"He's just been a little too reserved today, but he's got Molly," John smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile to his wife and stood up, bending down to help her out of the squidgy sofa.

* * *

Sherlock was trapped. He was quite inescapably trapped between the Molly Hooper on his chest and the Molly Hooper in his mind palace. Real Molly couldn't help that he couldn't get out, she was asleep, and she wasn't disturbing him at least- she was dribbling on his neck, much to his equal disgust and amusement. He chuckled to himself deciding on which shade of tomato she'd go when he told her in the morning. Mind-palace Molly was another matter entirely. She would not let him alone, every time he shut his eyes; she was waiting for him in the corridor, playing with Redbeard. The image caused his chest to tighten and he felt as if he wanted to stand there and watch them together indefinitely, his two saving graces. It was then, and always when he was just getting comfortable within that scenario in his mind that he'd feel the cold chill of Mycroft's voice. He'd be told every misgiving, every wrong-doing, and how disappointing he was in every aspect of the whole of his life to date. Sherlock knew he shouldn't care about what his brother said, he should rationalise the comments, analyse them so as to not make the same mistakes again and then file them for later reference if necessary. It was half-way through the historical lecture that mind-palace Molly decided she didn't like the way mind-palace Mycroft was talking to him. He watched on with amusement as she scolded him, and told him that caring was not a disadvantage, it was in fact the greatest advantage a person could have- it gave you something to fight for. Mind-palace Mycroft scoffed, and gave a monologue on how clouded the mind can become when distracted by other people blah, blah, blah, Sherlock stopped listening to his brother, enraptured by Molly's patience. Even mummy would have scolded Mycroft by now, for being rude or something equally as trivial, but Molly just stood and waited for him to finish. Sherlock tuned back into the closing remarks of the lecture he'd heard far too many times before, Mycroft always finished with some comment about Redbeard. The dog barked upon hearing his name mentioned, and then wandered off down the corridor and out of sight. Molly raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, then laughed softly to herself, and did something utterly surprising to Sherlock: she told Mycroft that he was silly. He'd heard his brother called many things- most of them quite colourful- but never silly. Mycroft looked down on her dumbfounded, turned sharply on his heel and left to go back behind his door of the mind palace leaving him and Molly alone,

"Don't hurt me Sherlock," She said quietly, kissing him on the cheek. He lifted his hand up to where her lips had touched his face, not noticing she'd gone.

* * *

Mary got up for the third time that night; the child inside her was kicking her bladder with infuriating accuracy. She waddled down the hallway, past the next guest room with Molly's bag outside and then Sherlock's room with the door slightly ajar. She smirked to herself, moving that could be fun.

* * *

_THUMP._ Sherlock sat bolt upright, quickly unravelling himself from the duvet to see how much damage Molly had caused herself. He cursed himself under his breath; he should have been watching her. He got up and switched the gas-lamp back on, illuminating an image of Molly lying perfectly still, blood dribbling down her face. Sherlock bent down and assessed the facts: nothing broken, unconscious, small wound on the forehead bleeding profusely (not dangerous), very still, breathing shallowly. He bent over her and placed the back of his hand under her nose, definitely breathing. Now kneeling beside her he tapped her face mildly to try and stimulate a response,

"Molly, can you hear me?" Sherlock said with more than a hint of urgency in his voice. He rolled her into the recovery position and slapped her back a few times as if she were choking,

"Wake up Molly," He said gently, shaking her, "come back to me Molly," his voice held a more warning edge to it. "Please?" He stopped shaking and took her pulse again, it was steady. He felt her move slightly, and moved back from her, as she threw up all over the floor. Sherlock got up, thanked a God he didn't believe in, and brought back a wet flannel and bucket to Molly. He wiped her face gently, and sat her up against him, moving the bucket under her as she threw up again. He held her hair from getting in the way, feeling a sense of relief akin to when he'd 'died', knowing she was safe had moved up his priority list very quickly without his knowledge. He wiped her face again and asked her to answer a variety of questions relating to concussion. He knew that he ought to have taken her to a hospital, but then they'd take her away, and call her family, Mycroft would get involved and there would be a bigger fuss than was necessary. Better to keep her here, he could keep an eye on her. He moved her so she was supported by the wall and got her a glass of water; he then proceeded to clean the floor and came back with a small bundle of clothing. Sherlock handed Molly one of his t-shirts and a pair of pyjama bottoms, both of which would be too big for her, but would be more comfortable and cleaner than what she had on presently. Molly looked up at Sherlock, in short, he looked a mess. She couldn't quite believe that the last few hours had happened.

"Help," She managed to croak, pointing at the bundle of clothes in her arms, Sherlock knelt down next to her, and tentatively helped her to remove her cardigan. She managed to get her arms out of her top but couldn't get it over her head, Sherlock tried hard not to look as he performed the action for her. He put her dirty clothes in a pile next to them, and turned round to help her put on his t-shirt. She made a strange flapping gesture at him, which he didn't understand until he ended up with vomit down his shirt. Molly burst into tears, and brought her knees up to try and cover herself, she felt exposed and ashamed. Sherlock removed his shirt and added it to the pile of dirty clothing; he picked up the bucket and brought it closer to her. He got up and went to the bathroom to get the smell of vomit off his chest and get some more tissues for Molly, who he could hear sobbing loudly into her knees. Sherlock made his way back over to her, tissues in hand, and sat down. He manoeuvred her head out of her knees with one hand, and dried her eyes with the other. Molly sighed with exhaustion, and leant on Sherlock's shoulder, she hoped he wouldn't hate her too much when the concussion passed.

"I don't hate you, Molly, you matter, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise," He lifted her head and put his arm around her shoulders, resting her head on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, the slight elevation in his pulse made her smile to herself.

"Do you want to brush your teeth?" Sherlock asked quietly, Molly nodded slowly, and moved herself out from under his arm. He put her arms around his neck, lifted her up off the floor and carried her to the bathroom. Molly focussed on cleaning the acrid remnants from her mouth, trying not to think about the strong arm wrapped around her waist, or the warmth of his chest against her back when she stood up. All she wanted to do was melt into his embrace and stay there forever.

"You're getting cold," Sherlock stated, drawing her closer to him. Molly inhaled sharply, she didn't want to get dressed, she wanted to feel his skin against hers for as long as possible. She set down the toothbrush and leant forward to rinse her mouth out a final time. Sherlock instantly regretted pulling her closer to keep her warm, as it meant when she leant forward, her rear was putting pressure on an area he rather went unpressured. Molly straightened up and turned around; she rested her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Thank you," She mumbled into his chest, inhaling his scent. Sherlock leant down and kissed the top of her head, not saying a word. He was too busy trying to keep blood flow in his head to talk. He hadn't bargained for the intimacy of a half-naked hug. He caught a view of himself in the mirror he kept for shaving, he was happy, contented almost.

"Thank **you**, Molly," He whispered into her hair, scooping her up and taking her to the pile of blankets. He put her down in the middle of the blankets and picked up the bucket, he emptied and bleached it before placing it back within Molly's reach. Sherlock then got changed into his own pyjamas, before sitting down to help Molly dress. He deliberately sat behind her, not wanting to make things any more awkward for himself, and pulled the t-shirt over her head, helping her get her arms in. Molly lifted the back of her t-shirt up to reveal her bra strap, she could have sworn she heard Sherlock squeak, and indicated for him to undo it. Sherlock swallowed, and pinched the fabric either side of the clasp, allowing her to take it off.

"Would you mind not looking?" Molly blushed for the first time that evening; Sherlock took his cue to brush his teeth. She watched him leave; her heart ached for this to be the start of something more, but not quite as much as her head did from concussion. Molly changed into the pyjama bottoms quickly, and placed her dirty clothes in the pile at the edge of the blankets. She sighed heavily, and curled in up the blankets, enveloped by Sherlock's scent. He returned to the room shortly after she'd fallen asleep, checked she was breathing and that her pulse was satisfactory before sliding under the covers next to her. He arranged them, very carefully so as not to wake her, such that he could keep an eye on her breathing and pulse all night whilst utilising his mind-palace to analyse the data of the day.


	5. Chapter 5

An early update to celebrate reaching 50 follows, thank you all, hugs all round :)

This chapter pops in and out of the mind palace, anything that takes place in _italics_ is in the mind palace, normal text outside.

5

Sherlock brushed Molly's hair out of his face, and settled into his mind palace.

"_Look at you, so domestic," Mycroft spat, looking down at his brother,_

"_Jealous?" Sherlock asked_

"_Really? That's your response? You're much more involved than I'd realised," Mycroft sneered, leaning on his umbrella,_

"_What if I actually want to be involved?" Sherlock replied, _

"_Do you? Shall we take a look at the data brother dear?" Mycroft gave an appeasing smile to Sherlock, the hallway transforming around them into courtroom, a Jury set to try the notion of involvement. Sherlock in the witness stand, Mycroft as the prosecution, with John, Mary, Mrs Hudson, Le Strade and Molly sat in the gallery._

"_So ladies and gentlemen, let us get the facts. You are involved in caring for Mrs Hudson, Le Strade and John. This you cannot argue. The evidence of jumping off a building lies ever so slightly in my favour." Mycroft's sickly smile continued,_

"_Yes, that I cannot deny," Sherlock agreed,_

"_You also appear to have developed an attachment to Miss Hooper,"_

"_Dr. Hooper,"_

"_Point proven,"_

"_Not, you are just disrespectful,"_

"_The only other person you make me be respectful towards is Mrs Hudson, point proven,"_

"_You can't say I have an attachment based purely on the title she's earned,"_

"_Can."_

"_Can't,"_

"_Did,"_

"_Well don't,"_

"_Getting childish Sherlock, she's saved your life, twice,"_

"_True,"_

"_That would indicate trust, which usually means attachment,"_

"_Define attachment Mycroft, Molly is a friend to me, the same as John,"_

"_As highly as John, eh? The comparison to John is important here brother,"_

"_She saved my life, Mycroft,"_

"_But you opted for her to, both times,"_

"_I needed her, both times."_

"_Needed?"_

"_She's a doctor, a pathologist, both sets of training come in very handy in both instances in which she saved me,"_

"_Saved you now, not saved your life,"_

"_Same thing Mycroft,"_

"_Oh but it isn't, is it?"_

_Silence_

"_So now we've established just how much you care for __**Dr **__Hooper, shall we examine whether you will permit yourself to indulge in such acts of sentiment? As we well know, sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. You cannot afford to be on the losing side, Sherlock; so many people will be hurt. Especially her, although you ever so good at that, aren't you? Poor little Molly, you've used her so often, and now you're being nice to her, it hurts her even more. All you'll ever do is hurt people Sherlock. Think of all the times you've nearly got John killed- do you want that for Molly?" _

"_Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock repeated to himself, an automated response,_

"_That's more like it,"_

"_So why then, does everyone else say that caring is an advantage, brother dear? You are the only person to have ever told me that- and it is in direct contradiction to human nature, surely, if it is mass population behaviour, then there must be an evolutionary advantage to it."_

"_Not for you Sherlock. It'll cloud your mind, and without that, what are you?"_

_The courtroom faded into a field on a sunny day, a small boy playing with his dog appeared before them._

"_Honestly Sherlock, now is not the time for Redbeard," Mycroft reprimanded his brother,_

"_Why? Because you couldn't bear that I had anyone else but you? Couldn't cope with the fact that you were lonely brother-mine?" Sherlock was beginning to get angry,_

"_Calm down, I never forced you to do anything; I always gave balanced reasonings that you accepted,"_

"_You made me think that I was stupid. And disappointing. And that nobody could love a thing like me." Sherlock was now shaking, hands balled into fists, trying not to burst into tears_

"_Truth hurts William."_

Sherlock sat bolt upright, panting heavily, and wiped the tears from his face. He felt pathetic. He knew everything his brother had said was right, he had one thing he was good at, one measly party trick. He could never give another person what they needed, why would anybody love someone like him? He looked down at the small woman curled up in the blankets, he certainly didn't deserve her. Molly rolled over, disturbed by Sherlock's sudden movement, she flapped an arm out. Sherlock sat perfectly still, trying to get control of his breathing. Molly's hand eventually landed on his shoulder, after waving about in the air as if she was conducting an invisible orchestra, and tried to drag him back down,

"Wha's matter," She mumbled, face half in the pillow, her hand falling to his elbow,

"Nothing," Sherlock mumbled, taking the hand on his elbow in his,

"S'not true." Molly yanked on his hand, Sherlock's shoulders sagged and he reluctantly lay back down, facing away from her.

"We can talk in the morning," He tried to brush her off with a somewhat strangled mutter,

"No, now," Molly's voice was now a sharp whisper; she started to clamber up onto his side, expecting to have to climb over him to get a face-to-face conversation. To her surprise, he rolled over.

"You seriously want to do this now?" Sherlock growled,

"Do what? I just wanted to know what made you cry," She stroked his face gently, caught out momentarily by her own boldness.

"You deserve far better than me, Molly," Sherlock blinked back more tears in the darkness and tried to roll away from her again. Molly sighed, and shuffled onto his chest before he could turn over fully.

"I know, but I don't care. You're a good man, even if you won't admit it to yourself." She said quietly, reaching for one of his hands.

"I'm really not Molly; I solve crime as an alternative to getting high. I've beaten a man to a pulp and thrown him out of a window, I've shot a man in cold blood. Not glowing credentials." Sherlock spat, disgusted at himself.

"Why did you do those things, Sherlock? Not the drugs, that's a whole different kettle of fish, why did you throw the man out of a window and shoot the other," Molly asked softly,

"I just told you I killed a man in cold blood and you're asking why? You should be repelled." Sherlock tried to take his hand from Molly's, but she only gripped it harder.

"You only do things for a reason. You're a very logical person- every move you make is carefully planned." Molly offered, it seemed to calm him down a little,

"The former was a CIA agent who hadn't been overly kind to Mrs Hudson. I took exception to that. The second was Charles Augustus Magnusson. A despicable man who had some information on Mary she didn't want disclosed. I saw to it that he could hold it over her any longer." Sherlock explained briefly.

"Oh, they said that was suicide." Molly shrugged a little

"That's your response," He said flatly,

"You had a valid reason for it. Not a mark against you in my book," Molly squeezed his hand, and fell back to sleep. Sherlock receded back into his mind palace, that conversation needed addressing.

"_Love is blind brother-mine," Mycroft's voice greeted him in the hallway,_

"_Contradicting yourself brother, you said no-one could love me," Sherlock allowed himself a smirk,_

"_On the contrary, I think she's naïve, and once she sees you for who you really are, once you hurt her that one time too many, she'll up and go." Mycroft countered,_

"_If you think that, then you are sillier than I originally thought," Molly appeared from behind a door labelled 'for sorting'._

"_I beg your pardon?!" Mycroft exclaimed,_

"_I'd never leave him. I would certainly never betray him like you did- you're supposed to be his brother! You and him against the world? Wasn't it?" Molly's voice got increasingly louder as the speech went on._

"_I fished him out of crack-dens and scum holes, made sure he didn't die," Mycroft said through gritted teeth,_

"_You did the bare minimum, especially given it was you who put him there in the first place," Molly shouted,_

"_You'd do well to control your woman, Sherlock" Mycroft was now shaking with rage,_

"_She's not my woman," Sherlock shrugged_

"_I would be if you asked, until the end," Molly interjected brightly,_

"_Still, you wouldn't be mine to control, that would hardly be healthy," Sherlock replied,_

"_True, you've had enough unhealthy relationships for this lifetime."_

Sherlock's visit to his mind-palace was brought to an abrupt end by Molly's hair tickling his nose, if this was to continue, she'd need to start tying her hair back at night. Sherlock sighed, he really was in deep. Surprisingly, he didn't mind too much, perhaps giving happy a go wouldn't be a bad thing after all?

"_Happiness is overrated, in order to be happy, one must have a degree of sad. You'll be bored and miserable." Mycroft's voice resounded around his head._

"_How do you know? We have no experimental data to suggest either way."_

"_Sherlock Holmes. Molly is NOT one of your experiments." John stormed into his consciousness, _

"_And no, you cannot offer her a relationship on the grounds of an experiment. It would break her if you decided it wasn't working," John continued_

"_I told you that you'd only end up hurting her," Mycroft added, ignoring John's glare,_

"_Don't you do to her what you did to me Sherl," Janine warned, waltzing in,_

"_So you're all in agreement that I shouldn't have a relationship with Molly?"_

"_No."_

_Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows; they had specifically just said he shouldn't._

"_What we are trying to tell you, is that whatever you do, you have to do it right by Molly," John explained,_

"_Which means?"_

"_All you have to do is ask, Sherlock," Molly smiled, putting her hand in his, her hand was sweating and her pulse elevated- _

Molly was having some sort of nightmare; she was overly warm and muttering to herself,

"No, no, not dead,"

Sherlock shook her slightly,

"Wake up, Molly," He said softly into her ear, she opened her eyes and let out a sigh of relief,

"You're not dead," Molly said smiling,

"Not the last time I checked, no, but you're the pathologist," Sherlock said, eyes twinkling, Molly let out a small chuckle and turned over, taking one of Sherlock's arms with her, moving them into a position akin to spooning.

"My pathologist," Sherlock said to himself quietly.


	6. Chapter 6

6

Breakfast on New Year's Eve was an interesting affair, it had been noted that Molly's bag was no longer in the hallway and Sherlock's door was now shut, but no one said a word on that subject, electing for New Year's resolutions instead.

"I think my new year's resolution this year will be to stop Sherlock experimenting on my baby," John declared, much to everyone's amusement. Mary smirked at him,

"Maybe I should take that one up too. He's going to need constant supervision, Sherlock that is, not the baby," She added,

"In that case, I'll make mine to stop him bringing the child to crime scenes," Greg grinned, helping himself to more toast. The table was creaking under the weight of toast, jams and marmalades it had upon it.

"I'd best take them some breakfast," Mrs Holmes said, starting to get up

"I doubt he's awake yet darling, sit down and enjoy your breakfast," Mr Holmes laid a hand on his wife's arm; she was awfully fussy over her boys when they were home.

"That's if he went to sleep in the first place," John said, knowing his best friend's aversion to necessities adhered to by the rest of the population. He wondered how Molly was getting on in there; it wasn't uncommon for Sherlock to keep her in the lab for hours after her shifts, forgetting that she needed sleep also. Sometimes, John would fall asleep on the workbench for a few hours, wake up and they'd still be buried in chemical analysis of one kind or another. He smiled to himself, hoping those moments would not be too few in the coming year.

"Poor Molly, she's such a sweet girl. He really does put her through a lot." Mrs Hudson sighed,

"We'll always be grateful to her for keeping him alive, even if he isn't," Mrs Holmes tone reflected the sadness and gratitude she felt about the situation. She knew Molly would make Sherlock happy, she'd known that from the moment Mycroft had mentioned her name. Since they were small she'd watched Mycroft try to look after his brother, and more poignantly, use him to alleviate his own loneliness. Not that he'd ever admit to being lonely, of course. The tone of voice in which Mycroft had explained Molly's involvement in the fall had struck a chord with her, her eldest son was jealous. It never crossed her mind that her youngest might let himself be happy.

"I think he cares a lot more than he lets on," Mary said casually,

"We know, dear, he's never been good with that sort of thing. One lives in hope that there is someone in existence that he'll actually listen to." Mr Holmes smiled at Mary,

"He listens to Molly," John said quietly.

* * *

Sherlock had come to a conclusion. He did not like withdrawal. Most of the night had been spent nauseas and dizzy. He knew that it could be a lot worse, and having to keep an eye on Molly gave him a focus and had stopped him from trying to dig up a fix. A few years ago, in what he classed as an act of brilliance, he'd buried his 'emergency' stash in the bathroom of the shed under the wooden boarding- somewhere he knew Mycroft wouldn't go. Today would be spent using all his will-power not to dig up most of it as the last of yesterday's mishap left his system. He looked down at Molly, She had slept soundly all night, and would likely have no ill effects of her concussion other than a sore head - he couldn't risk getting caught in the act by her anyway, he had no desire to feel her hand on his face again. He sat and thought over the events of the last 24 hours, flinching at his sentimental behaviour. He needed to get back to the case in hand, and soon- tomorrow, New Year, new case, a fresh start. Sherlock stood up, and went to have a shower, cleansing himself of the emotion of the night. His head was hurting and not entirely under control, but he was pleased to have negotiated the dose so as to avoid the sweats and shakes.

* * *

"He listens to Molly?" Echoed Mrs Holmes curiously after a moments silence,

"Well, if you can stretch accepts body parts as bribery to listens, then yes," John expanded, hoping Sherlock didn't take too unkindly to the disclosure of his and Molly's black-mail system of late.

* * *

Molly took a moment to orient herself and digest yesterday's events. She sighed heavily, why did she put herself in positions where she was only going to get hurt? Chances are there had only been one dose, and it would have mostly cleared by now, meaning Sherlock would be back to his arrogant, childish self and would definitely not appreciate having a witness to his weakness, especially one who had given themselves concussion by tripping over a blanket. Despite all the ridicule she'd get later, the moment of waking up in _his_ pyjamas, in _his_ bed, was worth it all. A moment she could have, to keep with her and look on fondly in her days of spinsterhood, cats round her ankles. Molly could hear the shower going, and was surprised she hadn't been left in favour of some far more interesting species of moss. She got up and opened the curtains, letting the bright winter sunshine flood into the shed, illuminating the mess left by her clumsiness. Dirtied clothes, mop, bucket, and a bottle of bleach were in evidence. Molly shook her head and rolled up the sleeves of the shirt and bottoms of the pyjama trousers to begin clearing up, she first placed the dirty clothes out of the way up on the worktop, before folding the blankets up and placing them next to the clothes. She then set about mopping the corner, before bleaching the bucket and then the mop. She looked around, satisfied with her handiwork when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom wearing just a towel. She focussed her eyes on the mop handle and tried furiously not to blush.

"Go and shower inside Molly. I need to think," Sherlock said briskly,

"Ok… Thank you for… never mind," She mumbled, walking in the dry path she'd left to the door, she turned the handle,

"Molly…" Sherlock's tone held a warning edge to it; she sighed and turned to face him,

"I won't say a word." She said quietly, looking him in the eye before walking out of the shed.

* * *

Mrs Holmes was packing away the breakfast things and setting the tray when Molly came in the back door looking dishevelled. Molly silently took the chocolate spread and a spoon from the table before disappearing upstairs. The adults around the table all shared a look of moderate confusion and surprise.

"Morning mother," Sherlock exclaimed, bursting through the door and making them all jump. He picked up the breakfast tray and looked over at John,

"Molly's concussed by the way," Sherlock said disappearing out the door before anyone had registered what he'd said.

"What?" John blinked twice; Molly had come in wearing Sherlock's pyjamas with an apparent concussion. The consulting detective was in a good mood, showered and dressed. It didn't quite compute in his brain.

"Molly's concussed, and has stolen the chocolate spread," Sherlock replied, re-entering the kitchen and putting the tray down on the table.

"How?!" John half-shouted,

"Tripped," Sherlock shrugged, walking off leaving the room in silence again. A glass smashed on the floor, Mrs Holmes was shaking,

"Chocolate spread. He only eats chocolate spread when…" She balled her fists, a tear running down her cheek. John's eyes went wide, realising what the end of the sentence meant.

"Oh Molly," He said holding his head in his hands.

* * *

Molly reached the top floor landing, and looked around for her overnight bag. It had been sitting in the hallway, minding its own business and someone had moved it. Where could it have gone? Molly sighed; she knew exactly where it had gone, and the reaction it was intended to create. She poked her head around the door to Sherlock's bedroom, and there it was, sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. She decided that it may as well stay there while she got cleaned up and dressed, and then she could move it on without disturbing anyone- besides, Sherlock was thinking in the shed, right? She picked out her toiletries and towel, and headed off to clean up.

* * *

John looked at his wife, who was smirking slightly,

"What have you done?" He asked quietly, her smirk grew into a brilliant smile,

"You know how you said Sherlock needs a push in a certain direction sometimes, I gave him one," Mary explained in a hushed whisper, the two exchanged a look, and laughed between themselves.

* * *

Molly wrapped herself in a big fluffy towel and walked into Sherlock's bedroom to get her clothes, to find Sherlock himself sitting cross-legged on the bed eating the chocolate spread out of the jar. She squealed and went bright red.

"As if it could get any worse," She mumbled to herself looking for her bag to return to the bathroom to dress as quickly as possible.

"Why was your bag in here?" Sherlock demanded,

"Why are you in here?" Molly retorted

"My room." Sherlock shrugged, taking another spoonful of chocolate spread.

"You said you needed to think!" Molly sighed and clutched at the towel,

"I can think in here." Sherlock said simply, not understanding Molly's reaction.

"Where is my bag?" She yelled, eyes scanning the room desperately.

"I threw it out of the window. It was too loud." Sherlock said flippantly. If Molly had been holding something other than her towel, she'd have thrown it at his head.

"WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES YOU GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT," Mrs Holmes shouted from the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock froze, spoon in mouth, computing what his best move would be.

"IF YOU'RE NOT HERE ON THE COUNT OF THREE I'LL CALL YOUR BROTHER!" She yelled, Sherlock jumped off the bed and hurtled to the stairs, abandoning the spoon and spread to the bed.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, dear?" Mr Holmes asked his wife gently, one hand on her shoulder; she merely nodded and kept her eyes peeled on the top of the stairs. Sherlock duly appeared, and walked down the stairs very slowly.

"Why, Sherlock?" His mother asked when he'd got down to the ground floor, her bottom lip quivering.

"Why, what mother?" He asked nonchalantly, eyebrow raised,

"The chocolate spread, William," She said as calmly as she could, addressing him by the first name to try and add more weight to her words.

"I happen to like chocolate spread mummy," He replied feigning hurt,

"You've only ever eaten it under certain circumstances," Mrs Holmes was fighting to keep her composure, Sherlock was about to reply when Molly came flying down the stairs, still in only a towel.

"Miracle you didn't fall down them," He said acidly, looking down on her. Molly ignored his tone and slapped him hard around the face,

"Don't you dare try and weasel your way out of this," She stayed on the bottom step to keep her height disadvantage minimal, when he looked at her he narrowed his eyes, so she slapped him again.

"You tell them, or I will," She threatened. Sherlock touched his stinging cheek with his hand in disbelief. Molly simply glared at him, Sherlock growled,

"I never stipulated under what time frame or what it was that I wouldn't say." Molly said quickly, Sherlock's face hardened.

"Do you want Mycroft to deduce it? You're in control of this Sherlock, admittance is not failure," Molly continued, trying to keep her voice as smooth and quiet as possible.

"Crying out loud Sherlock, are you using again?" Greg said what no-one else was willing to, John winced, and Mrs Holmes started crying.

"Fine, one dose late morning yesterday that was it." Sherlock relented, knowing it would be better coming from him than his brother. He turned to face Molly,

"Are you happy now? Just when they thought I couldn't be more disappointing." He hissed, nose inches away from hers,

"You think they'd rather you lie to their faces? That would be far more disappointing." Molly whispered to Sherlock, holding his gaze. Silence filled the air, broken intermittently by the quiet sobs of Sherlock's mother.

"Apologise to them Sherlock." Molly continued in a quiet but firm tone of voice, Sherlock's eyes narrowed, as if to say '_why?_'

"Because you've upset them, when you upset someone you should apologise." She answered his unasked question, leaving '_it'll disappoint me if you don't'_ hanging in the air. Sherlock paused for a moment before turning around and walking over to his parents, Molly signalled to John behind Sherlock's back to move everybody into the lounge and away from the hallway. John manoeuvred Mrs Hudson, Greg and his wife away from the situation he knew his best friend would rather went unseen. Personal moments for Sherlock were few and far between, especially when it involved his family. There was no way for Molly to squeeze past, so she retreated up a couple of stairs and sat down out of view. Sherlock stood in front of his parents, as if he were an eight year old that had been caught setting fire to one of Mycroft's shirts with a magnifying glass.

"I am truly sorry," He whispered, being drawn into a three way hug.


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you very much to all who have reviewed/favourited/followed/read this so far! You're all wonderful :) Hope you enjoy the next instalment!

7

Mycroft Holmes was not looking forward to the next 24 hours. There was only so much enjoyment one could get out of an aquarium of goldfish and a sociopathic brother, although it would work out well in the long run, less trips to the theatre were needed if he came to the new year's celebrations. He pulled into the driveway, driving wasn't one of his favourite things, but circumstance dictated he come alone with the car on this occasion. He got out and took his bag from the passenger front seat, noticing a light blue bag sitting in the hedge. He decided the reasoning behind its outside existence could turn out to be amusing, picked it up and rang the doorbell; two bags meant it would be far too cumbersome to unlock the door himself.

* * *

The loud ding-dong of the bell brought the group hug involving Sherlock and his parents to an abrupt end, Sherlock went to open the door,

"Not today thank you," He said, trying to slam the door in Mycroft's face, only to be stopped by a well-polished brogue.

"I think Molly would value having some clothing," Mycroft said through the gap in the door, Sherlock didn't budge,

"Really brother, if you wish to see her naked you should just ask. Now let me in." Mycroft mocked, causing howling laughter in the living room.

"Boys," Mr Holmes tried to get his sons' attention, Molly was sat shivering on the stairs and the last thing she needed after concussion was to risk hypothermia.

"She'll catch her death of cold sat there with wet hair in that draft. Let him in Sherlock," Mrs Holmes finished her husband's sentence in a more commanding manner. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped away from the door, allowing Mycroft to enter to a very embarrassed Molly sitting on the stairs in naught but a towel.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft said in acknowledgment handing the bag over, Molly stood up slowly, so as not to flash anyone and started to go upstairs.

"Molly, what is your title?" Sherlock asked bluntly

"S-Sorry?" Molly replied, turning around.

"For filling in forms, on your driving license," Sherlock said impatiently,

"Doctor," Molly said slowly, confused as to why Sherlock would ask a question he already knew the answer to.

"Mycroft." Sherlock said to his brother, an unimpressed look on his face

"Seriously Sherlock?" Mycroft sighed; his brother could be irritatingly petulant at times.

"If you insist upon formality, you should at least use the relevant person's appropriate title." Sherlock snapped,

"My apologies, _Dr_ Hooper." Mycroft said to Molly in his condescending manner. Molly took that as her cue to leave and disappeared as quickly as she could upstairs.

"Do you want a cup of tea Mikey?" Mrs Holmes asked, Mycroft gave her a withering smile,

"Yes, thank you mother. Must you insist on shortening my name?" He sighed, knowing he was fighting a losing battle.

"I'm your mother, I named you and will call you whatever variation of that I like. Now, take your bag upstairs and join us in the lounge." Mrs Holmes all but shooed her eldest son up the stairs before shuffling off to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock and his father alone in the hallway.

"Communication, compromise, and respect, Sherlock," Mr Holmes smiled up at his younger son, leaving him musing over three words.

* * *

Molly wrung her hair out for the fourth time, and negotiated it into a side plait. She loved her hair, but it wasn't the most practical, taking an unreasonable length of time to dry with or without a hairdryer. She packed away her towel and wash things, wondering where would be best for her to keep her bag. She sighed to herself, she hadn't been away from home for 24 hours yet and it felt like a week. Molly vacated the bathroom and walked straight into Sherlock who had been standing right outside the bathroom door.

"You should watch where you're going," Sherlock commented, smirking down at her

"You shouldn't stand so close to doors," Molly retorted, her nose merely inches away from Sherlock's chest. The two stood their ground, neither wanting to be the first to blink.

"You could cut the tension out here with a knife. Hurry up brother, you're painful to watch." Mycroft drawled, emerging from his room.

"Hurry up and do what?" Molly asked, not breaking eye-contact with Sherlock. At least half a minute passed and there was no answer, physically or in spoken word to Mycroft's question from Sherlock. A confused expression crept over Molly's face; she disliked conversations that were scripted to avoid certain parties. She jumped and squealed as Mycroft put his hand on her shoulder,

"Seeing as my brother is doing his impeccable impression of a portrait model may I escort you downstairs?" Mycroft smiled insincerely down at Molly,

"Don't touch her Mycroft." Sherlock said curtly, breaking his silence

"Why not? If Molly herself was to expressly ask for the removal of my hand I would do so. You have no authority to dictate such matters," Mycroft fought to keep his voice neutral, and stop the smirk on his face from growing.

"Get your hand off her, or I will remove it myself," Sherlock threatened, his hands balling into fists by his sides.

"Oh please-" Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother's impressively short temper.

"What on Earth is going on?!" Molly exclaimed, frustrated with the unanswered questions and excessive behaviour.

"Yes Sherlock, what _is_ going on?" Mycroft asked, a tone of feigned innocence in his voice.

* * *

John and Mary sat on the sofa; Mrs Hudson was buried in the Christmas-New Year special of the Radio Times, seeing if there was anything worth putting on tonight or whether it would just be another year of Jools Holland and Hootenanny. Mr and Mrs Holmes were rifling through a First aid box pulled out from under the sofa, checking whether the items enclosed were still usable. There was one in every room to account for the short-fused nature of Sherlock's temper, and his apparent affinity for the violation of walls. The comfortable silence of the group was abruptly disturbed when the front door slammed shut.

"John!" Sherlock shouted from upstairs, John jumped to his feet and ran up the stairs to see what his friend had done now. He was greeted at the top of the stairs by Sherlock with a bloodied fist and Mycroft with a broken nose.

"What happened here?" John asked, stopped in his tracks. Mycroft simply pointed at Sherlock, dabbing at his bloody nose with a hanky.

"Quickly John! Get your coat, we've got to get Molly," Sherlock barked, pulling his coat on, and all but jumping down the stairs. John followed, hot on his heels and the two of them raced out of the door.

* * *

Mrs Holmes looked at her eldest son in despair.

"What have you done now?" She sighed, fishing out the first aid box she'd just checked.

"I was gathering evidence," Mycroft said simply, not wincing when his mother taped his nose up.

"What did you take/touch/move?" She enquired with a slight smile on her face, Sherlock had frequently hit Mycroft when they were younger, the former taking extreme offense to the latter handling anything deemed to be in his possession. She was curious as to whether her hunch was correct.

"Molly Hooper." Mycroft replied, the pair shared a small smile.

* * *

It took Sherlock and John only 10 minutes to catch up with Molly. She was dawdling along a country path that ran alongside the Holmes' cottage, ringing her hands and muttering to herself. She didn't want to entertain the thoughts that were rationalising Sherlock's bizarre behaviour (drug induced or not) towards her of late. She knew she had to escape before he broke her entirely- there weren't many other justifications for that punch. Molly heard footsteps coming up quickly behind her, and before she had time to react she had been put over someone's shoulder and was being carried off!

"Put me down" She demanded, trying to knee her assailant in the face. To her surprise she was put down, to her further surprise, her would-be kidnapper was Sherlock Holmes.

"Don't you dare do that again," He growled at her, holding her by the upper arms, vibrating so much that she was almost shaking. That was the final straw for Molly; she burst into tears and would have fallen to her knees if she hadn't been held so tightly. John watched on with a combination of amusement and concern; amusement at the potential for a truly odd Sherlock solution to whatever this problem was, concern that it would most likely end up in more tears for Molly.

"You must promise me you'll not go outside of the house again without John or I present, understood?" Sherlock said angrily,

"She is a grown woman Sherlock," John warned, his mood turning distinctly sour, he'd seen this sort of behaviour before.

"I almost managed to walk off with her conscious, can you imagine what someone could do if she wasn't?!" Sherlock hissed

"We're in a the arse end of no-where, I'm pretty sure that house is better protected than Buckingham Palace and Downing Street combined. It's New Year's Eve. Why would anyone target Molly, of all people, here, of all places?" John half-shouted, getting increasingly annoyed with Sherlock's not-quite-answers and know-it-all face. Mycroft wouldn't be the only Holmes with a broken nose at this rate.

"I need you safe, do you understand?" Sherlock ignored John's rant, keeping his full attention on Molly, who simply sobbed.

"You're going to leave some nasty marks on her arms if you continue holding her like that," John remarked icily. Sherlock slackened his grip a little, and in one quick motion returned her to the fireman's lift over his shoulder. He turned to face John who, to put it mildly, had a face like thunder. Sherlock looked over his friend,

"You think I'm abusing her." He stated simply.

"Your relationship, if you can call it that, does have some very distinct parallels with those involving domestic violence Sherlock." John said curtly, Sherlock sighed- he knew that he couldn't ask Molly to clear his name as John would take any dismissal as proof.

"The last thing I want is for her to get hurt, John." Sherlock said quietly, not quite meeting John's gaze.

"Well, the diametric opposite is said in your actions." John hissed unimpressed with the list of evidence that had formed in his head.

"Would you take my word for it?" Sherlock asked, still unable to complete eye-contact with his best friend.

"Look me in the eye, Sherlock, and tell me what is going on." John instructed. Sherlock paused a moment before meeting John's steely glare.

"She counts,"


	8. Chapter 8

Big thank yous and hugs to all who have reviewed/favourited/followed!

Trigger warning: references to domestic violence.

8

"They've been gone an awfully long time" Mrs Holmes fretted, the last few months had not been easy on her, Sherlock getting shot, shooting someone, his almost-exile. The last thing she needed right now was for them to get kidnapped- or worse.

"They'll be fine mummy, stop fretting. Haven't you got something to cook? Take your mind off it," Mycroft tried to calm her down, hysterical women were not something he was particularly fond of.

"C'mon darling, those potatoes won't bake themselves," Mr Holmes took his cue from his son and led his wife into the kitchen.

"This could get ugly, and quickly," Mycroft warned the group, Mrs Hudson and Greg both nodded, they knew Sherlock well enough to know when he needed to be left well alone or when he was in need of a short piece of casual advice. Mary caught Mycroft's eye, they had an unspoken understanding on this particular subject.

* * *

"That's your defence?" John said, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"It's the truth." Sherlock said simply, if he hadn't Molly on his shoulder, he would have shrugged.

"It's a shit defence." John shook his head; he needed to know to what extent Sherlock understood what he was doing.

"Don't worry about me, John, I'm fine," Molly chimed in from over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Molly, unlike him I know what it means when a woman says she's fine," John said despairingly. Sherlock put Molly down in front of him,

"He's not going to believe you, whatever you say he can twist to back up his theory," Sherlock said bluntly, resting one hand lightly on her shoulder.

"Molly, abuse is not only physical, you know that." John put on his best 'doctor-voice', trying to keep neutral. Sherlock snorted derisively,

"You should know by now one needs all the facts to build a decent theory. Presently yours is lacking both facts and decency." He said in bored tone.

"Are you going to enlighten us mere mortals as to those facts?" John asked Sherlock's expression hardened, as did his grip on Molly's shoulder.

"Honestly John, it's ok," She said softly, giving her best pretend smile. John frowned; he did not buy her smile and was starting to get most irate with the pair. He turned to look at Sherlock- who had a blank mask on his face, and fire in his eyes. John knew this look meant trouble, it wouldn't be long before the phrase 'Vatican cameos' would be uttered and his behaviour turned toward self-destructive. He was beginning to become convinced that this particular case, when Sherlock got round to sharing, would heavily involve Molly.

"It's not ok, Molly." John reverted to his doctor-voice, hoping to coax more than a few words out of the detective and lose the false pretences from the pathologist.

"John, I know you care, and you don't want anyone to get hurt, but I am- we are fine." Molly said softly.

"You're looking for something that isn't there." Sherlock said gruffly removing his hand from her shoulder. This was not a conversation he was prepared to have. He brushed past Molly and John, leaving them to walk back to the house in uncomfortable silence. John paused before entering the cottage,

"Seriously?" He asked with a look of disbelief on his face.

"He's not dealing well with the last few months, least of all the Magnussen business and _his_ possible return." Molly tried a different approach, one that would avoid the conversation veering towards last night.

"Ah." John ran his hand through his hair sheepishly, she didn't know about the aftermath. John's eyes widened as he realised Sherlock never said goodbye to Molly.

"He's convinced himself he's this terrible person." Molly continued, she had never been close to John, but he was the only person she could talk to about Sherlock.

"That was even before he shot Magnussen- when I mentioned being best man at my wedding, he never twigged I'd chosen him- assuming he wasn't good enough." John said despairing that someone so clever could be so blind when it came to relationships.

"I would imagine it started well before that, John. Can you imagine growing up with Mycroft as a brother? Imagine him as your only source of companionship in the whole world for a time, the person you have had closest to a friend does not believe in friendship, or compassion or sentiment and above all believes you to be stupid. On top of that he's suffered a lot over the past few years, and now it's all coming to a head." Molly splurged her feelings on the situation; she needed to get them out of her system and knew John would understand.

"It's a danger night Molly, I'm sorry to say," John agreed and pushed the door open so they could go inside.

* * *

Sherlock stormed into the lounge muttering to himself, the distinguishable words were mostly Molly, John and ridiculous. Mary watched him curiously; he was pacing around like a caged animal. The concern that had been voiced earlier grew as he bolted upon the sound of Molly and John in the hallway. Mary and Mycroft exchanged another glance as the pair walked in.

"Have fun dear?" Mary asked John, who shook his head in despair, he was about to open his mouth to attempt to explain their absence to his wife when there was a loud bang that sounded from the direction of the kitchen, followed by Sherlock shouting something in Serbian, before the back door was slammed shut.

"Would anyone like some tea?" Mycroft asked casually, Molly glared at him and quickly dashed off in the direction of the noise.

"She'll be fine John," Mary said gently to her husband, who sighed heavily and made his way towards the kitchen.

* * *

Sherlock could not be doing with John and his wrongful conclusion, he'd have to offer something more to him before said wrongful conclusion reached his mother- then he'd be in real trouble. Sherlock was so lost in thought that he slipped on some water that had been splashed onto the floor during washing up and slammed into the cupboards. He swore loudly in Serbian, from that Mycroft would know this was a specific wound, and not to be brought up unless they wanted to have _that_ conversation with everyone. He could feel the blood trickling down his arm, they had branded his shoulder in such a fashion that the wound would never really heal, the skin was too tight, on a joint over a bone. He swept out of the kitchen quickly to avoid either of his parents asking questions, he knew he would be followed.

* * *

Molly stared at the key pad on the door of the shed, trying to remember what Sherlock had punched in the previous night. She sighed and knocked on the wood,

"It's me," She said weakly, listening out for any movement inside.

"Not now, Molly," came the short reply, she sat down with her back resting against the door, expecting not to be let in any time soon.

"How's your arm?" She asked, trying to mask the worry in her voice,

"Fine." was Sherlock's curt reply.

"May I look at it?"

* * *

John watched the scene unfold from the backdoor, aware that Sherlock knew he was there. It was disconcerting for the doctor, unsure as to whether this was a scene scripted by Sherlock for him, or whether it was his friend's way of explaining what was going on. In light of how far Sherlock had gone to ensure his wife's freedom (he didn't want to entertain the thought that Sherlock had shot Magnussen purely because he lost the game), John decided to take him at his word, and view whatever was to pass with an open mind. He couldn't hear what was being said, but as the old saying goes: actions speak louder than words. John watched on curiously as the door was opened, Molly obviously wasn't expecting the door to open and started to fall backwards, only to be caught be Sherlock. He helped her up with one arm, retaining a hand on the small of her back. John couldn't help but wonder at the amount of human contact there had been between Sherlock and Molly- for someone "who didn't go in for that sort of thing" Sherlock was doing a very good impression. John winced as Sherlock turned slightly, blood trails staining the arm of his crisp white shirt. There appeared to be a moderate disagreement, from what John could tell it was over whether the shirt sleeve should be ripped off or Sherlock should take the whole thing off so Molly could examine the wound. John sighed as they disappeared inside; maybe he had got the wrong end of the stick after all?

* * *

Sherlock shut the door behind them, this was something John didn't need to see or overhear. He removed his shirt and heard Molly gasp at the state of his skin under the sunlight. His travels had not been kind to his body. Sherlock walked over to the shelves about the work space, and took down a first aid kit. She watched him closely, how the scars rippled as the muscle moved, how controlled the movements were, but most importantly, the blood dribbling down his arm from a poorly healed scab on his shoulder. She had originally thought the wound to be a nick on the upper arm from what she heard in the kitchen and saw through the shirt, but this was much more. He was letting her in somewhere he wouldn't let John, and that scared her.

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," Sherlock said simply, handing her the first aid kit.

* * *

John trudged back to the lounge and sat down next to his wife, sighing heavily. There had been enough to take in over the past week or so without having to deal with whatever was going on with Sherlock and Molly. John was secretly quite pleased that Sherlock had found himself a new minder and more constant companion in Molly, even if the stubborn bastard hadn't accepted that was her role yet.

"Well…" Mrs Hudson beckoned John to offer some kind of explanation for this morning's behaviour,

"It would appear that my little brother has become a quite possessive over the pathologist. It's not advisable for either of them to do what they will, but if I try to intervene – for England's safety you understand – I would imagine it'll be worse than a bloodied nose." Mycroft sneered, his disapproval evident.

"He is capable of caring Mycroft," John chided, from what he'd seen of the brother's relationship, it was more unhealthy than that between Sherlock and Molly.

"Oh, I know, that's the problem. The last time… the consequences were not pretty, shall we say." Mycroft said shortly, his posture stiffened slightly, Mary noticed the slight discomfort

"You mean Moriarty?" Mary asked, she was sure this wasn't to do with the fall.

"Heavens no, I'm talking about the dog." Mycroft exclaimed indignantly.

"You said the last time he cared- he cares for us?" John said slowly, confused by the elder brother.

"John, you're ex-military, your wife is a crack shot, Greg is a police officer and Mrs Hudson ran a drugs cartel. You're all capable of looking after yourselves, a calculated risk on Sherlock's part, if you will. He knows that at one point or another something will happen to you, and he is confident in your abilities to survive until he finds you. He isn't willing to take that risk with Dr Hooper."

* * *

"Will you answer one question for me, truthfully?" Molly asked disinfecting the split wound; she wasn't expecting a response, merely a nod of the head or complete silence, she would ask her question anyway, and he knew that. Once Sherlock felt the pressure leave his shoulder, he turned around to face her. He stroked her cheek bone with his thumb, cupping her face in his hands.

"I can't answer that, but I will keep you safe, whatever that takes."


End file.
